A Complicated Christmas

By Barbara Butterfield

As the Christmas season approaches, the SCPD is steadily negotiating a morass of calls the likes of which could easily rival the most brutal Halloween.
Cody Weston, a 32-year-old law enforcement officer has been employed by SCPD for the last three years. Cody thought he had seen it all. Not even close.
One day he happens to meet a nurse: 29-year-old Braelyn Robbins. Let’s just say their friendship started off with an unavoidable bang.
Little did they suspect that a chance meeting one cold Christmas night would cause them to face their fears, as well as their future … together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798369419861

Barbara Butterfield

Ms. Butterfield is California born and raised, and currently resides in a suburb of Phoenix, Arizona…where she lives with her favorite feline friend: Baybee. Integrity, suspense, camaraderie, romance, and personal growth are all values that play a vital role in her novels. More importantly, the gospel and spiritual growth are also an aspect of life into which she delves. Ms. Butterfield has written for many years; her first novel having been penned at the age of fourteen. She also studied writing and journalism, becoming the Editor-In-Chief of the school’s newspaper. She is currently working on her 60th novel.

Book preview

A COMPLICATED

CHRISTMAS

Barbara Butterfield

Copyright © 2024 by Barbara Butterfield.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Photograph:

Compliments of iStock.com

Photograph by: aijohn784

Rev. date: 04/12/2024

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

859424

Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Dedication

My thanks and appreciation

are extended to my:

dear friend,

brother in Christ,

consultant,

and neighbor:

Martin Weiner

Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, Ret.

For allowing me to pick-his-brain, interrogate,

and pose numerous questions regarding various

tactical procedures, and law enforcement scenarios

that only I could come up with.

Truly, Marty will never be the same.

Thank you!

Blessings always!

Chapter 1

Officer Cody Weston pulled open the driver’s door of his black and white patrol vehicle and slid onto the seat. Slamming the door shut was a noisy and aggressive move that got Capt. Washburn’s attention.

Slouched down, Cody leaned to his left where he propped his elbow on the armrest. Wearily, his hand rubbed his eyes and then his face. Consciously, he worked to slow his heart rate - and breathing - down to a more normal rate.

In less than a minute there came a moderate knock on the closed window as Washburn’s knuckles rapped against the glass. Cody glanced up and hit the button to lower the window.

Want to talk about it? Washburn offered.

No, Cody replied with a simple shake of the head, and then pressed the button again only this time to raise the window.

Don’t do that, Weston, Washburn advised, and with a heavy sigh Cody lowered the window again.

It wasn’t your fault, you know, Washburn continued as she sought to comfort the beleaguered junior officer.

How would you know? You weren’t here when it went down, Cody snapped, which wasn’t the norm for him, especially when talking to a superior officer.

Talking back to a captain was never a good idea, nor did it demonstrate sound judgement. However, this time, and considering the circumstances, Washburn could overlook a little insubordination.

No, but I’ve asked around to others that were. Have you been cleared by medics?

"I haven’t seen any medics," Cody grumped.

I swear, some of you guys are nothing more than well-trained - and armed - little boys, Washburn scolded. Shaking her head in quandary she stood up looking toward the fire truck parked no more than 50 feet away.

Mark? Hey! Anderson! Washburn called out, getting the medics’ attention.

Yeah?

Bring that big red box of yours over here, would ya?

Sure. Be right there.

I don’t need medics, Cody complained.

Are you, or are you not, in pain?

No.

"Don’t you ever lie to me again, do you read me?"

Yes ma’am, Cody acquiesced. Yes, it hurts.

What happened?

The traffic stop went bad.

Well, I know that much. How are you hurt? Where?

Hey, Cap? Officer Chuck Plissken interrupted, jogging over to where Washburn was standing.

Yeah?

We recovered five of the spent rounds, but the other two we can’t find.

Okay. I think Captain Thomson is hanging around here somewhere; you’d better let him know.

Yes ma’am, Plissken nodded. Casting an uneasy glance at his patrol partner, he turned and dashed off in search of Captain Thomson.

Cody, where are you hurt? Washburn persisted.

I’m not.

That tears it. Step out of the car … now, Washburn ordered and then backed up allowing room for Weston to swing the door open.

But …

Now!

Heaving a huge, painful sigh, Cody opened the door and exited the patrol vehicle.

Where do you hurt?

I don’t.

And you’re lying, again. One more and I’ll cuff you myself and haul your ass back to the station, Washburn warned. Now, where do you hurt? Or better yet just tell me what happened.

Despite the discomfort, Cody leaned back against the black and white as his mind returned to a time a mere thirty minutes prior.

* * *

He and partner, Chuck Plissken, were patrolling solo this evening, each in their own black and white.

Earlier, while cruising down Beach Boulevard, Cody spotted a car whose brake lights were malfunctioning. It wasn’t a huge infraction, but one for which he was well within his rights to stop the driver to let him know about the malfunction. Odds were, he would let the guy off with a warning.

2BAKER54-2, copy traffic stop.

2BAKER54-2, go ahead, Dispatch replied.

Mary – Nora – Young, five – one – zero. Beach north of Meridian.

2BAKER54-2, Dispatch replied. Please repeat.

What the hell? Cody thought, perplexed by the delay, for it certainly wasn’t something that happened frequently. Sighing, he patiently complied.

2BAKER54-2, copy traffic stop. Mary – Nora – Young, five – one – zero. Beach north of Meridian.

2BAKER54-2, Breach at Marydale?

"2BAKER54-2, Beach at Meridian," Cody clarified, carefully enunciating each word.

2BAKER54-2, copy.

The problem wasn’t that his communications weren’t being heard, but the radio’s transmission was full of static and breaking up badly.

Weston patiently continued to follow the Benz while waiting for the MDC, or Mobile Data Computer, to return the information stored in its database for the vehicle.

It was getting late in his shift, and Cody was getting tired. He could either wish for the remaining three hours to calmly roll past without issue or for the pace to amp up.

Some types of action provided an opportunity to apply some solid analytical and tactically-sound methodology, along with a modicum of entertainment. Either way was good, but it was the not knowing that kept his attention on most late nights.

Investigative car stops were the bread and butter of crime prevention whose ultimate goal was to get bad guys off the street, held accountable for their actions, and - if necessary - locked up for a long time.

Cody and his buddies had learned early on that while on duty their main function was to go out hunting for … criminals. They expertly wielded the vehicle code - within regulations – counting on it to provide them with probable cause to make legitimate traffic stops. Being keenly aware of their surroundings, the officers of the SCPD were continually on the lookout for that certain someone who – through their own unlawful actions - needed to be held accountable and brought to justice.

Patiently, Cody kept pace with the driver, continuing at a moderate 40 miles per hour. This was both legal and acceptable until Cody began noticing the furtive movements of the Benz’ driver.

The subtle - and unnecessary - actions piqued Cody’s interest, which caused his emotions to immediately swing into a defensive mode. Inwardly, he sensed something was amiss with this driver whose identity was rapidly devolving into that of a suspect.

Unblinking, Cody found himself keenly focused on the car ahead of him. For some odd reason, he felt the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck begin to rise. He even discovered goosebumps on his forearms but attributed that to being chilled. Without thinking, his right hand swept down to his hip. Feeling the cold steel of his sidearm snug within the holster was – on some level – comforting, and his hand returned to the steering wheel.

Get a grip, Cody cautioned himself. This one should just be a coin toss.

Flipping on the overhead red and blue strobing lights, he didn’t even have to chirp the siren once to get the driver to pull over.

Both cars slow-rolled to a stop on the shoulder of the road, well clear of traffic.

Leaving the car in neutral, Cody set the parking brake when he was about 20 feet behind the subject’s car, angling the patrol vehicle slightly into the lane. Throwing the cruiser into Park, the high beams remained on, thoroughly illuminating the powder blue 1980 Mercedes-Benz SL.

The driver used his rearview mirror to look in the direction of the patrol vehicle. However, there was no way he could determine what was happening behind him since he was staring directly into the patrol car’s high-beam headlights, strobing red and blue light bar, and take-down lights.

Take-down lights are two units located on the light bar atop the cruiser. Similar to high-beam headlights, when they are angled correctly they shine into the subject’s side mirror - or even the rearview mirror – rendering the driver blind to whatever activity may be going on behind him.

Some may call it sneaky while others - more appropriately - refer to it as tactical advantage.

The rationale for this action was direct and to the point: Was the suspect going home to his family tonight, or was the officer going home to his family? Tactical advantage was often the determinant factor in such matters.

Exiting the black and white, Cody walked around behind his own vehicle, opting to approach the Benz from the passenger’s side.

Cody made a point of walking behind his car to avoid passing between the two stopped vehicles. This action eliminated the risk of him being crushed between the two vehicles in the event of an accident. Tragic instances have occurred when a distracted driver failed to notice a traffic stop and accidentally rearended the police cruiser.

Cautiously, Cody proceeded alongside the Benz. Pulling a flashlight from his duty belt, he used the high-intensity beam to get a better view of the interior of the subject’s car.

The Mercedes’ darkly tinted windows were rolled up, and, though shaded, they were not so dark as to be illegal.

2ADAM31, the somber voice of Dispatch was heard over Cody’s lapel mic. I need you to start for 2BAKER54-2.

Copy, 2ADAM31, enroute.

Immediately, Cody froze, his gut twisting into a tight, yet slightly uncomfortable knot. There was only one reason for Dispatch to send another unit, and it wasn’t for a simple traffic infraction.

2BAKER54-2 are you Code 4? Dispatch asked, needing to know if Weston was alright, or not.

2BAKER54-2, I’m Code 4, go ahead, Cody quietly replied, taking a few steps away from the Benz.

2BAKER54-2, vehicle is Code 5 Sam, which was SCPD’s way of communicating the car had been reported as stolen.

Out of HBPD jurisdiction, Dispatch continued, referencing the Huntington Beach Police Department.

Then Dispatch got to the really interesting part, noting that the RP (Reporting Party) said there is a possibility a large number of firearms were stored in the vehicle’s trunk at the time it was reported stolen.

Shit, Cody swore as his mind mulled over the amount of firepower the driver could have at his disposal. Depressing the talk button on his lapel mic he added, Copy.

Cody realized backup was on the way, which was always good to know. Though time was on his side, such things often had a notorious habit of running out. This Benz driver was a threat to the community, and it was the role of law enforcement to neutralize such threats.

The subject, expecting the officer to approach from the driver’s side, craned his head to the left hoping to catch sight of the officer. This bought Cody a couple more precious seconds to react when the flashlight’s beam clearly displayed the grip of a revolver that had been awkwardly stuffed between the console and the driver’s seat.

For a split second Cody’s breath caught in his throat, and his mind and body immediately went on the defensive.

The stainless-steel finish of the barrel, which belonged to a Smith & Wesson .45 caliber handgun, couldn’t be readily seen, but there was no mistaking the butt of the revolver that was clearly displayed.

It wasn’t as if the older style weapon didn’t pack the same punch as a newer automatic weapon. Truth be told, though slower, it was still capable of putting a very large dent in someone’s otherwise good day.

In preparation for contacting the armed subject, Cody drew his sidearm from its holster. Inwardly, he thought this might have gone down as his fastest draw to date.

Put your hands on the steering wheel, and don’t move! Weston shouted, using his best drill instructor’s voice.

Damn, dude, I have to move my hands to put them on the wheel, the man retorted. Unconcerned about why he had been stopped, the man threw his head back with laughter.

Ever vigilant, Cody noticed when the man rolled the driver’s window all the way down, though he made a point of leaving the passenger window snugged all the way up.

Put your hands on the steering wheel, and don’t move! Cody repeated the command.

Yeah, yeah … whatever, the man muttered as he grudgingly complied.

Sir, do you have any weapons in the vehicle?

The answer to this query could quite possibly determine which way this stop was headed.

No, the man lied.

Surreptitiously, the man let his right hand slide off the wheel and down to the right where he allowed his palm to cover the butt of the weapon that had been quickly - and inefficiently – hidden alongside the console.

STOP! DO NOT MOVE!

Dude, alright … don’t get all bent outta shape, man, the driver cajoled. It’s just a gun, and a revolver at that. What the hell can a revolver do?

Put your hands on the damned steering wheel!

Why?

Put your fucking hands on the steering wheel!

And what if I don’t want to? Like, dude, I know my rights, the man stated.

The presence of the weapon made all the difference. This stop was no longer routine, if there were such a thing.

A gun being transported in a haphazard way, in conjunction with the possibility of multiple weapons being onboard, changed things. Not only that, but the vehicle had been reported stolen two days prior. Put it all together and this otherwise simple traffic infraction - just like that – became a high-risk felony stop.

HANDS ON THE WHEEL, NOW!

Okay … okay, they’re on the wheel, are you happy? the man sneered, placing both hands on the steering wheel at the 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock positions.

Man, you guys get creeped out awful easy just because there’s a gun in the car. I wasn’t gonna do nothin’ with it, the man explained. Cody noticed but did nothing to respond to the suspect’s flippant statement.

Keep your hands where I can see them!

"This is a Constitutional right, you know."

Cody continued to ignore the man’s muttered complaints. Instead of allowing himself to be drawn into the man’s argumentative attitude, he maintained a firm, proactive stance in keeping with protocol.

Keeping a wary eye on the subject, Cody also had to keep his head on a swivel with regard to his surroundings. Per a morning briefing a couple weeks prior, the possibility of an ambush had to remain foremost in an officer’s mind.

What’s your name? Cody asked.

My friends call me Johnny Mayhem; you may have heard of me.

That’s the name on your license?

Not exactly. You see, I’m a rapper.

What’s your real name?

Marcel Olivera. You can see why I needed to change it.

Mr. Olivera, do you have your driver’s license with you, or any form of ID?

Yeah, the man said, and Cody noticed as the man’s line of sight swept downward. But it’s in the box here, the center console. I would have to move the gun to get it out.

Just keep your hands where I can see ’em. On the steering wheel, Cody stated.

Whatever floats your boat, bro, the man said, waving an airy hand in the officer’s direction.

So, was it a slow night and you decided to roust a perfectly solid citizen for kicks?

This car was reported stolen two days ago.

"The hell it was! This is my car!" Olivera stated, becoming irate.

Not according to the license plate.

CVR583? the man asked, giving false information as a diversionary tactic.

That’s not the plate as displayed on this car, Cody stated.

"What the hell? Now this I got to see," Olivera stated. Determined to exit the car, as well as avoid the officer’s demands, he swung the door open.

STAY IN THE CAR! Cody shouted, reaffirming the grip on his weapon, even though his palms were becoming moist.

"Not on your life! You’re accusing me of driving a stolen car, when it’s my car? I demand to see the license plate!"

STAY IN THE VEHICLE! Cody repeated, but his order fell on deaf ears.

Despite Weston’s orders, Olivera got out of the car. The man felt he had to take action now because his bluff had just about timed itself out.

In a flash, Olivera yanked a handgun from his waistband. Whirling about, he opened fire, shooting at the officer through the interior of the car.

Weston, squinting his eyes against the onslaught of shattered glass, did his best to avoid the sharp pieces. But it was the dull thud, followed immediately by a sharp pain in his side, that got his attention. The moment Cody had seen Olivera’s hand move toward his waistband, Cody fired five shots in rapid succession.

SHOTS FIRED! SHOTS FIRED! Weston shouted, keying his lapel mic.

Though hit, Cody stayed in the fight. Once he saw Olivera go down, he took a couple faltering steps backward, lost his balance, and fell. Proned out, at least for the time being he didn’t present any concern of crossfire to his colleagues.

Cody tried to get up, and braced on his right elbow, his left hand instinctively swept to his right side where the pain was the sharpest.

Shit, he swore when he pulled his hand back and it felt wet. Cody’s worst nightmare had become reality when he saw his hand coated with dark red blood. Stubborn through and through, he tried to stand up, but couldn’t seem to get his feet under him.

He would soon learn that Olivera had a long history of gang affiliation, and in fact was a known cop-killer. But no matter what details the man’s record held, the bottom line was that he was now guilty of attempted murder of a peace officer. Weston had no choice but to stand his ground.

Just as Cody had fired his weapon, three additional black and whites came roaring into view. Instantly, they knew their buddy’s traffic stop had gone south. Body language alone proved that, but they had also seen muzzle flashes and were ready to engage in battle.

Slamming on the brakes, the units’ headlights further illuminated the area. Most noticeably, the officers caught a glimpse of Cody’s two booted feet, which extended just beyond the rear bumper of the Benz … on the passenger’s side.

Hit, Olivera lay on the pavement. Sprawled on his back and screaming in pain he rocked side-to-side. However, the gun was still held in a strong grasp.

Any nearby onlookers, if they were given to observing details, would have seen the man reaffirm his grasp on the weapon, even as he lay bleeding in the street.

Through the high-pitched ringing in his ears, mixed with the dull haze of pain, Olivera thought he heard a couple cars come to a screeching halt nearby. Lifting his head, and with blurred vision, he looked over the toes of his booted feet to see three black and white units that had just arrived. The dust kicked up from their hard-braking stops still floated in hazy, opaque clouds around the vehicles.

Angered by this new set of circumstances, Olivera was aware enough to know that his time was limited, and the clock was ticking. Seeing the unwanted guests, he immediately swung his right arm up and opened fire, riddling the black and whites’ windshields with numerous rounds.

Agilely ducking out of the way, Officers Wentworth, DeMarco, Travis, and Grady’s doors burst wide open. Using them as shields, they returned fire. As is usual in such instances, the entire event moved from start to finish in less than three seconds.

As the sharp rapport of gunfire echoed into the past, Wentworth radioed for medical assistance. He and Travis, his partner, went to aid the felon who – it was discovered – had just breathed his last.

As soon as the threat had been neutralized, Officers Tony DeMarco and Dwayne Grady rushed to their downed colleague who - much to their amazement - was no longer down.

Coming around the rear bumper of the Benz, they were surprised to see Weston on his feet. He was swaying ever so slightly, but still, he was standing.

With the cessation of gunfire, Cody figured it was all clear. Though it pained him to do so, he pushed himself to his feet and was standing before his buddies could reach him.

Where is that lousy piece of shit? Cody hollered, shoving his way past Grady.

Hey bro, hold up a sec, Grady encouraged. Intending to stop his injured colleague, Dwayne reached out and grabbed Weston by the upper arm.

Grady, stuff it, Cody snapped, brushing Dwayne’s hand from him. Glancing at his right hand, which was now empty, he continued.

Where the hell is my gun? Cody demanded as he began looking around the immediate area.

Code-man, chill, bro. The suspect is not only down, but he’s dead.

Let me be the judge of that, Cody declared as he moved around the rear bumper of the Benz. Then, spotting the gun wedged against the rear tire, he bent down to retrieve his duty weapon. Bumping his head against the wheel well - as he tried to stand up - only added to his misery.

Damn it! Cody swore, raising his right hand to his forehead.

Code, my man, don’t make me cuff you, brother.

Shut the fuck up, Weston swore, as DeMarco and Grady simply turned perplexed expressions on one another. Short of putting Cody on the ground and holding him down, neither officer was sure of what tact to assume.

Shock? DeMarco suggested. Wordlessly, Grady shrugged.

Cody, with his gun firmly in hand, left arm wrapped protectively across his midsection, and only a minor headache, stormed around the rear of the Benz. There he saw Wentworth and Travis squatting beside the body of the felon.

Both officers glanced upward as somber eyes roamed all the way up to Weston’s full 6-foot-2 height. Neither did they miss seeing the gun held in the injured officer’s hand.

He’s dead, Cody. Put your gun away, Wentworth calmly requested.

I’ll put it away when I’m damned good and ready! Weston snapped. Without blinking, Wentworth slowly rose to his feet to face his buddy.

Cody, give me your gun, he requested, extending his right hand even as he watched Weston’s chest heaving with each ragged breath.

Cody, look at me, Wentworth quietly ordered. But Cody didn’t look at him. All he could see was the body on the pavement. The man who had just tried to take his life.

Just then another black and white came speeding up the street, its red and blues strobing brightly in the night air. Brakes having been slammed on caused the tires to squeal, and the unit fishtailed a little. The door swung open and Plissken got out, running to the small knot of officers standing on the roadside.

Chuck first noticed the body on the ground, and then saw that all eyes were currently focused on his partner. There seemed to be a sort of stand-off occurring. Plissken observed that Cody still held his weapon in a tight grip, though his arm was straight down at his side with the muzzle pointed at the ground.

What the hell is going on here? Chuck demanded to know.

Weston’s injured and appears to be angry about what happened here. I’ve asked him to give me his gun. But so far, as you can see, he hasn’t complied, Wentworth explained. Now with a better understanding, Plissken calmly – and steadily - approached his partner.

Cody, give me your gun, Chuck requested, extending a hand toward the wounded officer.

Having been replaced, something he understood, Wentworth resolutely stepped back a few feet, relinquishing control of the situation to Plissken, who was senior to them all.

Cody? Chuck said, making a point of saying his partner’s first name. It’s me, Chuck. The guy’s dead, the battles over.

I have to stand my ground.

You did, and you won.

"We won," Cody corrected.

Just then he took a deep, ragged inhalation, exhaling the kind of sigh only someone who knows what it’s like to have engaged in – and survived - a gunfight would understand.

Yes, we did, Chuck agreed, displaying compassion, understanding, and camaraderie to his partner.

Why does it have to be a battle? Cody asked, and his query almost sounded like a plaintive lament.

Because good versus evil will always exist. It always has, and it always will, Wentworth interjected when it appeared Chuck seemed to be at a loss for words.

The gun? Plissken quietly encouraged, and this time Cody handed the weapon to him, butt first.

Thank you. Are you hurt?

Huh?

Did you take a hit? Chuck repeated, using a term only those in law enforcement would understand.

I … I don’t know, Cody said, shaking his head. But Grady, who was standing behind him, managed to get Plissken’s attention, silently nodding in the affirmative.

"But you don’t feel hurt?"

No, Cody said shaking his head, and it was then that Chuck noticed his partner’s bloodied hand.

Adrenaline, Wentworth somberly offered, and he was probably correct.

Get the vest off him and check him out, Plissken ordered. Travis, start a second medical, and get an ETA.

You got it.

But Cody shoved his way past the hands of friends that were only trying to help him.

Cody! Stop!

Get the hell off my back! Weston shouted over his shoulder.

Occasionally stumbling, Cody stubbornly made his way back to the black and white, and that was right where Captain Washburn found him.

Chapter 2

Having been coaxed out of the car, either that or he was ordered to exit the vehicle, Cody stood resting against the closed driver’s door of his black and white.

Where are you hurt? Captain Washburn demanded.

I’m not, Cody grimaced.

Why … you … thick-headed, stubborn, son of a … Washburn scolded, but decided to dial her irritation back a notch, especially since this officer was wounded.

Mark! Washburn hollered to the medic as she changed her angle of attack.

Yeah?

Grab that big red contraption of yours and get the hell over here!

Paula, you and Tyler grab the gurney, senior medic Mark Anderson ordered.

Yes sir.

Grabbing the large first aid kit, he dashed over to where there seemed to be some sort of problem occurring.

What’s up? Mark asked as he approached the captain.

"Weston here is … or rather, he shouldn’t be, she explained. He’s hurt."

Where?

Hell, if I know, he won’t tell anyone. Maybe you can get it out of him, Washburn explained, deciding to throw in the towel on trying to gain the officer’s compliance.

Cody, what’s going on? Mark gently asked. Taking a few steps, he stood in front of his patient, attempting to visually assess Weston’s condition. Nearby, Paula and Tyler guided the gurney, stopping near the wounded officer.

I’m okay, Cody insisted, though if someone had thought to ask him later why he had responded that way, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them.

Lie down on the gurney, Mark ordered.

I don’t need to lay down, and I don’t need a gurney! Cody snapped.

See? Washburn gasped in frustration, flapping a hand in Weston’s direction. Stubborn.

It’s more likely shock, Cap, Anderson corrected. Cody, lie down.

No.

Cody, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way, it’s up to you. Now, what’s it going to be?

Cody stared at the medic, surprised to hear words that he - as a patrol officer - had uttered many times in the past.

Well? Mark gently, though adamantly, persisted, crossing his arms.

No.

Cody, I think you should know that as recently as three years ago I was a corpsman …

So? I was, and still am, a cop, Cody challenged.

I was a medic in the Navy, Mark continued to explain; though upon hearing this new information, Cody chose to remain silent, opting instead to listen.

I deployed five, count ’em, five, Mark explained holding up his left hand – fingers splayed wide – right in front of Weston’s face, shit-filled, crap-encrusted tours to the Middle East, and each time I kicked ass. Now, here I am, a senior medic with SCFD. So, tell me, what’s it gonna be?

Cody took a moment or two to consider the medic’s words or … threat. Heaving a weary sigh, he gave in and sat down on the gurney, though he still refused to lie down.

What rank were you? Cody asked as Mark unfastened the Velcro closures of his armored vest.

Staff Sergeant, Mark replied as he continued to work. Did you serve? he asked, lifting the heavy vest over Cody’s head.

Marine Corps.

Excellent. Rank?

Corporal.

Good thing you chose to obey my order, isn’t it? Mark good-naturedly teased.

Relieved of the restrictive body armor, Cody’s tensed shoulders relaxed. Mark saw this as a good sign, and wisely chose to use this time to assist his patient in lying down.

There now, that’s better, Mark observed. What caused you to leave the Navy? Cody asked, wincing as Mark unfastened his uniform shirt, laying the dark navy-blue fabric open.

Did you deploy? Anderson asked.

Once.

I went back five times, that was enough. Those last few rounds hit a little too close for comfort. I said, ‘Mark, it’s time to quit while you’re ahead.’

Not a gambler, eh? Cody grimaced.

For a while I was, then I thought, nope, no more.

Probably a good call.

The best. I came home, met a girl, ended up marrying her and started a family.

How many kids do you have? Cody asked. Ow … ow.

That hurts? Mark asked with a frown.

That’s what ow usually means, Cody replied, and tensing up again his breathing started coming a little faster.

Three kids. The youngest is a pistol though, we should’ve been smart and stopped with two. Wouldn’t trade him for the world though, but geez, Mark explained, shaking his head. Does this hurt?

Damn, Cody groaned.

I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then. Paula, shine that flashlight over here, he asked, and the narrow but bright beam lit up the area in question.

Shit, Mark grumbled. Well, it was difficult to find, especially with only ambient light.

What d’ya have? Paula asked, peering at the patient’s exposed torso.

"Well, we knew he had sprung a leak somewhere. Cody, please explain to me how you didn’t feel this?"

I was a Marine, remember?

Crap. Okay, how are his vitals? Mark asked his assistant.

Not too bad. Though not consistent with a bullet wound, Paula replied.

How is he? Washburn asked as she walked back